


This is Halloween

by Chelzbuckwheat



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Artist!Ross, Body Paint, College AU, Demon Baker AU, Haunted House, M/M, Multi, Paranormal Investigators, multiple AUs, urban witch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chelzbuckwheat/pseuds/Chelzbuckwheat
Summary: A collection of short stories from Smoth's October prompt list!





	1. Ghost Hunters

“Smith stop playing with my hair.”

“Dude, I’m all the way over here.” Ross panned the camera to Smith, who was in fact on the other side of the small hotel room. In the night vision camera, Ross watched Smith grimace and look towards the camera’s small red lit, indicating it was recording. Ross panned to Trott, barely catching his eye roll as he turned away. They had been in Room 23 at the Baratheon Hotel trying to record some evidence of paranormal activity; this room had stories about a flirtatious older woman, including claims of being touched and moaning near the bed. Ross had only been sitting at the foot of the bed for a few seconds. He reached in front of him above the camera to feel if there was a breeze or anything that could tickle his neck. His heart pattered in his chest as he could only feel cold, still air.

“Trott come over here.” Ross stood, reaching out for Trott. Their hands found each other’s as Ross led Trott to the foot of the bed. Trott wordlessly sat where Ross had been sitting previously. Ross watched Trott’s eyes scan the darkness in front of him, his eyebrows pitched up high, dubiously. Trott was the skeptic out of the group, and was often the nay-sayer on a lot of the evidence the trio accrue throughout the night. Ross zoomed out to show the entire bed and Trott, and waited.

“I will say it is slightly colder over here,” Trott admitted, looking around at the windows behind the headboard. “These are probably old windows.”

“The thermometer says it’s only a few points colder from where you were to the bed. Let me come over here to shoot the windows,” Smith offered, and he passed behind the camera. Ross watched through the view finder as Smith reentered the frame, his back to the camera as he pointed the thermometer around the windows. Blips of the small pinprick of light peppered around the far corner of the room near the head of the bed. Ross saw something move in the lower corner of the screen, and Trott yanked his hand off the bed, snapping his head to the side. They both waited, not saying anything.

“It’s war-”

“Fuck!” Trott yelled, jumping up from the bed and quickly stepping away from the bed. “Smith, tell me you were sitting down!”

“What?!”

“I swear to God Smith-”

“Dude, I wasn-”

“Smith was at the windows,” Ross interrupted. Trott’s face was twisted in confusion and he ran his fingers through his fringe. The room was quiet for a few seconds, the only sound of Trott’s panicked breathing.

“I need to see that shot right now.”

“I need to film on your phone Smith.” When Smith handed Ross his phone, the auburn took the camera, and tilted the view finder so both Trott and Smith could see it. The dim white light illuminated their faces, casting the room in darkness around them as the phone video tried to white balance. Smith spun back the recording to when Smith came onto the screen and played at half speed. After a few seconds, Smith pointed with a gasp as an anomaly entered the frame and landed on the bed near Trott’s hand. Trott’s face was hard to read as he watched himself pull away from the anomaly with Smith in the background. He rubbed his face as he watched himself slowly jump up and the anomaly flew back the way it came. Smith and Trott shared a look and Trott shrugged.

“I have no words.” The look of excitement Smith gave Ross almost made Ross forget they had to be in the room for the rest of the night.


	2. Casting a Spell

Trott cast aside the heavy curtains and breathed in the warm autumn sun. He let his eyes flutter shut and stood at the window for another moment as images of sunflowers blooming entered his mind’s eye. Trott smiled and turned to the sun room of his small apartment. The watering can sat atop the spindly stool of the sun room, and Trott hoisted the heavy metal can to his hip. A grid of sunflowers stood tall before him, towering over the crawling grasses and ivies in the raised garden below. Trott put his hand to one of the larger sunflower faces and smiled.

“Good morning my friend.” Trott imagined the vines at his feet wrapping around his ankles, and the line of energy entering the soles of his bare feet. The line coursed through his limbs, around his heart, and out to the outstretched hand. Trott had always thought his energy was a golden hue, and sharp like a sewing needle and thread. He watered and energized each of the sunflowers, commenting on each one's growth or color. They seemed to glow in the afternoon sun, beaming their thanks to him. 

Happy with his work, Trott headed back inside. He sprinkled basil leaves into the watering can and whispered a small spell of prosperity as he placed the watering can upon its stool. Trott hummed wordless hymns as he swayed around his apartment, hovering his hands over succulents and crystals, giving and taking energy. Trott had been living on his own for over a year now, and the months of solitude acted as lessons in his witchery. His dreams were always lucid and he often slipped in and out of reality without notice. He was lucky that his boss at the coffee shop was so laissez faire about Trott rolling in a few minutes late. 

Living as an urban witch was a challenge, as Trott often felt pulled by the chaotic energy of the city itself and all of the conflicting strings pulling him in different ways. It had helped Trott learn how to center, to meditate, to breathe. Trott smiled at the memory of his first sigil, the one that he etched onto a metal circle he wore as a bracelet to this day. 

Trott looked at the mounted phone, and it rung a moment later. He pardoned himself from his ferns, and plucked the phone from the receiver. “Hello Smith.”

“How do you do that?” Trott smiled and rolled his eyes.

“Magic, I guess.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'll write longer ones on days that I don't work both jobs lol


	3. Possession

This was probably the weirdest dream that Ross had ever had. 

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he supposed he never did when he dreamt. Like most dreams, Ross felt like an observer, only really experiencing what was going on around him with very little productive input. Ross often dreamed of mundane life being slightly twisted to fit the surreal realm of slumber, but this was vivid. Vivid in sight, but very muffled in everything else. The sounds and textures of things were dull and round as Ross got into his car. He tried to look around, but his head was fixed forward, watching his hands try the ignition. He knew how to start the car, but his hands seemed to stutter frustratingly. He imagined the action, the twist of his hand and the roar of his engine. He watched his hand pause, and then, as if it was remembering, he turned the key and the car started.

Apparently, Dream Ross was fucking awful at driving. The loose grip on this weird dream reality was causing Ross was serious terror as his car swerved in its lane and could not manage smooth turns. There were moments that Ross felt like he had control, like remembering to turn on the headlights because it was dark out, or how to use the turn signals, or insisting his non-responsive body to check the goddamn mirrors, that’s what they’re there for. Other than that, it was a nice night ride through a fairly accurate representation of the Valley. During some of the looks in the rearview mirror, Ross caught glimpses of familiar platinum hair in the backseat. He could never see Trott’s face, just the fringe just above his eyebrows. Despite demanding his body to look around, his hands vice gripped the steering wheel and he stopped checking his rearview mirror.

“I want to see Trott,” Ross yell in his mind. Unlike his last attempts, his body continued to operate without his input. “Hey, fuckface. Turn around.” His hand reached for the radio dial and flicked on the stereo. Even with the sound muffled, Ross knew the music was loud. It was unnerving, not like any dream Ross had before. Even in nightmares, he could still run. Ross tried to relax, glad it was only a dream. 

He was wildly confused when he pulled up to the parking lot of the Valley’s hospital. He felt himself unbuckle his seatbelt once he was parked, but left the keys on the passenger seat.

“Why am I here?” Ross started to panic once he felt himself reach for the car door. “I don’t want to go in!” His body froze, hovering near the handle. He sat back in his seat, and slowly the world around him started to seem clearer. The music was still playing, not as loud, but now Ross could hear the lyrics. The car was ice cold despite the midsummer night. But it was the sharp, piercing pain at Ross’ hairline that Ross couldn’t escape. He sat there, feeling the pulsing pain but still unable to recoil his own body. His hand found its way to the pain slowly, and when it pulled back, it was red. 

“Okay, I want to go in.” His body sprung into action, as if to go before he changed his mind. The pain was pulled away from him, and once again Ross felt as if there was a cloud between him and reality. Well, his dream reality. Right? 

Ross closed his eyes and hoped to wake up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with this one lol.   
> It will be continued on Day 10, because this is an AU I have not had time to delve into and I have wanted to so bad. See you then <3


	4. "Aren't you too old for Halloween?"

Ross only had about another hour until the golden hour, and two models that still needed at least a half hour of detail work. Ross tested his airbrush on his hand, and it left a pale orange streak against the other colors that he had collected throughout the day. His models, two students who heeded his call for help in the school newspaper, sat perched on hay bales. Ross was working on site today for a change, at a local pumpkin farm that allowed him to do his photoshoot there. 

It had been great in theory, but even with the ability to spend time matching colors to the mood of the scene, the many many stops to answer curious bystanders had made this process more involved. If he had a dollar for every “aren’t you too old for Halloween” or “so you paint naked people”, Ross could have paid both models twice. But, as a new body artist in a relative small college town, especially in one as conservative as Oreville, Ross couldn’t afford not to let people take behind-the-scene sneak peaks and answer questions about his craft.

His models were patient, thanks to the fact that they were getting paid per hour. And Ross had warned them that it might turn into a longer project than the four hours he had promised them, but they seemed eager. Ross remembered the odd jobs he did trying to help pay for rent and groceries, having only been out of college for a little over a year now. 

“We have about another half hour of paint, and then we’ll probably go until sundown,” Ross said as he approached the taller model. Despite his impressive bread, Smith was easier of the two to paint, considering Smith had very little body hair from his apparently habitual shaving and waxing. Ross had told them both they didn’t have to shave, much to his chagrin when faced with Trott’s patch of hair that chased down into his nude thong. If Ross had any other profession, the amount of time that Ross had worrying at this man’s crotch today would be criminal.

Despite having to sit relatively still for the camouflage to work, the three of them had spent a fair amount of time laughing and shooting the shit. At one point, Ross had to fix the paint around Trott’s eyes after a considerably dick-like pattern had ended up at the corner of Smith’s mouth. Ross was invigorated by the fact that his models were more like people than canvases. All of the projects Ross had worked on thus far had models that never spoke, never laughed, never cried. They stood there and stared back at him, just like his old blank oil paintings would. Ross had struggled with his art after college, having gone through a terrible break up and become estranged from his friend group because of it. Ross tried not to let the emotions seep back up, and let himself get lost in the story Smith was telling Trott about his first bar fight.

The golden hour was the hardest to work in for a camouflage painting, thanks to the ever changing light hues and deep shadows. But that is why Ross was doing it. He had brought Smith and Trott here yesterday and had them model in morph suits, and took pictures for him to reference for predicting shadows and colors. Within 20 minutes, the final touches were on the models, they perfected their pose, and photographs were taken.

"I think we're finally done."

“Oo, oo, can we see?” Trott asked without leaving his pose. Ross laughed, picking up the camera.

“You can relax, I have literally hundreds of pictures to go through. I’m sure I can find a good one.” Trott sprung from his seat, leaving Smith to catch himself on the hay. Ross flicked through some of the pictures: they looked good on the viewfinder. He zoomed in on Trott and Smith’s section of the photograph.

“Oh my God, that is adorable,” Trott said, leaning in Ross’ space to see the picture better. “Smith come here.” Smith loomed over Trott, and rested his clean hand on Ross’ other shoulder. The picture seemed to be arrangements of baskets of apples, corn wreaths, and squash along a stack of three hay bales, and a red wagon full of different sizes of pumpkins. The colors were vibrant and the right tones for autumn. But upon closer examination, Trott and Smith sat back to back, and Trott perched his foot on one of the larger pumpkins, the stem hiding most of the details of his toes. Their heads rested on the other’s shoulder and they looked towards the other, leaving Smith’s long neck exposed. Their hands were clasped and curled over the front of the hay bale, but the lines of their intertwined fingers were lost in the criss-cross of the hay. Ross would have to see the image on a larger screen to see if the magic of them disappearing was real, but so far it was convincing. 

“You two did great for first timers,” Ross said, but he realized he interrupted Smith and Trott giving each other love eyes. Ross had caught Trott doing it yesterday, whenever Trott thought only Smith and Ross were talking. He was glad that a couple as comfortable as Smith and Trott had been the couple to answer his ad. Ross tried to squash the pang of longing and envy that sprouted in his stomach. 

“Not the first time we’re heard that,” Smith said with a waggle of his eyebrows, elbowing Ross and Trott in the ribs to punctuate the joke. Trott laughed outright, but there was a hint of sheepishness that stayed with Ross.

“Is there any way we can have a copy for greeting cards?” Trott asked. 

“Sure, if you guys really want it.”

“Hell yeah, that’d be cool.” Ross was taken aback by their enthusiasm about his work. He looked down again at the picture, and let himself be proud of it. 

“Ross, me and Trott were going to go out for drinks later, you wanna go out with us?” Ross gave a small huff of a laugh. It had been a long time since he had gone out, let alone hung out with people. What did Ross really have to lose?

“Might wanna shower first.”

“Nah, I’m really digging the psuedo-dick on my cheek.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I fell off the band wagon there for a hot minute, life is super busy (surprise surprise). I have some ideas for the next few days so there will be more coming!  
> Artist!Ross strikes again ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. Making Friends with a Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of the "Possession" chapter, so I recommend reading that one first!  
> Mention of near-death experience, please take care of yourself!

Ross opened his eyes, and had to blink away the fog. He felt heavy and stiff and everything hurt. As compared to his dream, reality felt terrible. When he went to rub the sleep from his eyes, there was a sharp pain and a tug on the back of his hand. He looked to see there was an IV there. Ross became aware of the increasing beeping of the heart monitor, and the rest of the room came into existence for him. He was at the hospital. Ross paused and touched his head, and the warm rough feeling of cotton wrap made goosebumps crawl along Ross’s arms.

Ross questioned how much of his dream was, in fact, a dream.

“Hey sunshine.” Ross spun to look at Trott so quickly, he made himself dizzy. Trott was sitting in a chair near the hospital bed, leaning forward now.

“You’re here.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“You have a concussion. You fell at the bake-”

“No, Trott.” Ross sat up carefully and turned towards his boss and friend. “How did I get here?” Trott stared at Ross for a long moment, but sat back and brought a magazine to his face. The door opened a second later.

“Someone buzzed?” a nurse asked as he entered the room. Once he saw that Ross was awake, he started taking his vitals and asking simple questions, trying to measure comprehension if Ross had to guess. Something was up, Ross had decided. There were several time that weird shit happened when Trott was involved, but Ross had chalked it up to coincidence and luck. But Ross had never experienced a “dream” like that before, and to wake up now on the other side of that experience, it was not natural. Ross had always been a superstitious person, and this felt like some hocus pocus bullshit. “I’ll go get your doctor.”

When the nurse left the room, Ross didn’t turn to Trott. He thought about his “dream”, about what he truly remembered last. He had been standing a few steps up the step ladder, grabbing the everything-bagel mixings to make finish his bantam style bagels when he felt the step ladder begin to topple. He doesn’t remember getting up or going to his car, a block away in a free parking area. All he remembers is the helplessness of his dream, the glimpses at and refusal of turning to Trott, and the bloodied hand.

“Mr. Hornby!” a woman with black hair in a long bob said as she entered the room. “Dr. Richards,” she introduced as she shook his hand. “You, my friend, are one blessed fellow.” Ross looked from Dr. Richards to Trott, who was pointedly smiling and ignoring Ross. “Despite what Mr. Trott has described to have happened at the bakery, you have very little lasting damage from your head injury. We will be doing some tests today, have you spend one more night here to monitor your symptoms, but you’ll be home tomorrow afternoon if everything continues the way it has been going for you. Make sure to thank your lucky stars my friend.” After a couple minutes of asking about his comfort and pain levels, Dr. Richards put his chart back at the foot of the bed. “If you have any questions for me or need anything, feel free to buzz a nurse and we’ll come back. Otherwise, we’ll see you in a couple of hours for lunch.” Once the door click closed, Ross casted off the sheets and tossed his legs over the side of the bed.

“Ross, please stay in bed.” Trott, for the first time, seemed exhausted. There was a lethargy that hung around him, something very unlike the Trott Ross had grown to know. Trott was the embodiment of fire and passion, and Ross often joked that Trott was the Gordon Rambsy of the baking game. To see that fire doused was off-putting.  

“Trott, what is going on?” Trott looked around the room, and sighed. “I swear to God Trott. Something is up and I’m freaking out. The fucking dream I had wasn’t a dream.” Ross paused, but it earned him a look from his friend. 

“It wasn’t a dream,” Trott finally said, and the admittance seemed to deflate Trott more. Ross gestured for Trott to continue, his patience slipping away from him. Trott sighed, but snapped his fingers. It took a minute for Ross to realize his machine wasn’t beeping anymore. He whipped around and saw the machine was frozen, along with the analog clock that sat on his bedside drawers. Ross turned back to Trott.

“What the fuck?”

“Ross, would you say you believe in supernatural beings?”

“Like Bigfoot?”

“Try more like angels and demons.”

“What, is this  _ Charmed _ ?”

“Ross!” Trott barked, and his voice was stripped of its usual tone, and a voice that pierced into Ross’s mind replaced it. Trott cleared his throat and took a few breaths. “I am trying very hard to be honest with you, please shut up.”

“So you’re an angel?” There was a long pause before Trott shook his head.

“No.” No? Ross thought of the dream, thought of how his body froze at his unwillingness to leave the car once they arrived at the hospital. He thought of the intense pain that flooded into and then out of his existence. Ross thought of all the free donations Trott had given to homeless shelters, the Pride Month bake-off, the countless lives Trott had changed through his pastry philanthropy.

“So you’re…”

“A demon, yes.” 

“Where’s the tail and horns?” Trott sat there, staring blankly at Ross.

“I tell you, I am a powerful being from hell, and you want to know to see my tail? Ross, we are sitting in a room that is frozen in time!”

“Okay, but like, demons don’t do the shit you do!”

“That’s because they’re all in hell and I’m here.”

“So you left?”

“If you would just be quiet for a hot second, I would be able to tell my story a bit easier.” Ross put his hands up and shrugged. Leaning back onto the hospital bed, Ross motioned for Trott to continue. Ross listened to Trott’s story about leaving hell, the relinquishment of most of his powers, and the Banishment to the mortal realm. When Trott was a younger demon, he had grown to love the glow of bakeries and coffee shops because of the hues of the souls, and as he had spent more time there, had learn to relish in the sights, sounds, and smells of it all.

“Banishment is much like leaving the church,” Trott joked. “You leave everything behind in hope for a new life, and sure enough, you find another kind of purpose.”

“So you can never go back?”

“Nor do I want to,” Trott sneered. “I am too fond of humanity to continue the Trade. There are moments that I wish I could still do some of the tricks we can with our full powers, but I make do with what I still have.”

“Like what you did with me?” Trott nodded.

“I exhausted a lot of my power, but yes, possession is something I can still do.”

“Wait - you possessed me?!”

“How the fuck else was I supposed to get you here?” Trott stood and sat on Ross’s bed. There was a moment of silence, where Trott was looking at his hands. “You immediately started to seize, Ross. You would have died if I didn’t take over.” Ross’s heart dropped and he felt cold. “Part of possession is the regeneration of my new host. I could intervene with the head trauma and immediately start the healing process, while getting you to the hospital. I knew you would remember - you are a very actively involved host.”

“How did you know I was going to die?” Ross was suspicious, hopeful that Trott was being honest, but still suspicious.

“One of the reasons why I offered you the job was because of your Light. You had the same Light that had drawn me to Banishment, and you’re a damn good baker,” Trott said with a soft smile, but when he looked to Ross, it was sad. “It was fading, Ross.”

“And they only fade when -” Trott nodded and Ross left it at that. 

“I do not regret it, and I understand if you are mad or need time to process all of this,” Trott said, and he went to stand, but Ross grabbed his hand.

“Thank you Trott,” he started. “I trust you, even if I’m not sure if this is real or just the concussion.” They shared a laugh, and Ross felt the air in the room change and the heart monitor start to beep again. 


	6. Volunteering at a Haunted House

Smith rubbed his hands together as he stood only a few rows in from the edge of the corn field. The next wagon wasn’t set to come for another few minutes, so he radioed to his friend perched in one of the tree houses overlooking the loading area. 

“Raven come in, this is Scarecrow, over.”

“Ca-caw motherfucker.” Smith chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“Any good victims on this wagon, over?” The radio was quiet for a moment.

“There’s a Songbird, all black with platinum blond. Cornfield side.”

“Perfect, over and out.”

“Have fun~,” Ross sung and then the radio was silent. Smith always preferred to mess with groups who had a Songbird. They were usually the one person out of a group that was comforting everyone, lots of verbal confirmation: the moment these people get plucked, the rest of the ride gets a lot more intense for the people they leave behind. The haunted hayride was the first leg of a three-legged scare attraction, ramping up to a haunted house visitors have to flee into a wooded maze, only to enter a ghost-riddled hospital with an escape-room ending. There were other actors peppered along the trail that forced people from the safe parking area near the hospital to the full contact haunted trail. This was Smith’s third year as a Hayride plucker.

“Departing in three, two - ” the roar of the tractor engine starting drowned out the countdown from the Proctor over the walkie talkie. Smith turned down his walkie volume and left it on his station. He pulled down his mask and made sure to ooze a little bit more of fake blood around his mouth and smeared it up his arms. He made his way to the rendezvous point, and knelt in position as the tractor crept up. 

There was a section of the trail when the tractor passes through a bottleneck, and Smith waited there. He heard the tractor approach and spotted his Songbird. He sat perched comfortably on the edge, his back to the exposed sides of the wagon behind the tractor. It was a platform with only hay bales as seats. He was rubbing the back of the girl next to him, who was suspiciously peering at the other side of the corn. Smith took note of the section of the wagon his Songbird was positioned, and darted out as the wagon closely cut his corner. Huddled over, Smith made his way alongside the wagon, protected from view as the sides of the platform cantilevered over the large wheels of the wagon. Only a quarter mile ahead of their current position was a section where the cornfield crept closer, and that was Smith’s extraction point.

Smith sprung into action within twenty feet of his exit. He peered over the edge of the cantilever, briskly walking alongside the wagon. He ran in fingers long the knuckles of the girl, who must have thought it was the Songbird. She slowly turned to look, and saw Smith’s bloodied hands, looked back at him, and screamed. It sparked more screams, and Smith smiled sinisterly. He waited until the Songbird looked before Smith lunge over the side of the platform, wrapping his arm around the man’s core, dragging him backwards off his seat. Tossing the man over his shoulder, Smith ran to his cornfield outcropping, relishing in the adrenaline.

“Oh my God,” the man said repeatedly, alternating between screaming and whispering. Smith broke out into a sprint, letting the corn stalks whip both of them in the arms and legs. Smith could run this route blindfolded now, and he pretty much was blind in the dark night. After another minute of running, they arrived at a barely-lit clearing in the cornfield. There was a smaller platform wagon with hay bales, complete with manacles and jute cloth hoods. Smith tossed the man down after arriving at the rally point. The other pluckers would bring their picks here and they would be transported in hoods to the haunted house on a smaller wagon. “Where the fuck are we?” the Songbird asked as he sat on the ground. Even in the dim light, Smith could see his Songbird was terrified. The man tried to stand, but Smith pushed him back down. “Where are my friends?”

“Shut it,” Smith answered. “You should worry about you.” There was another onslaught of screams, and Smith walked to the wagon. When he turned around, his Songbird was breaking into a sprint back into the cornfield. Smith sighed - he hated runners. It was easy enough to catch up to his Songbird who was struggled to break through the tall stalks, and he yanked the man off his feet, tossing him back onto his shoulder. “There are worse things out there than me,” Smith said over the man’s screaming. His fists pounded onto Smith’s back, but it was moot. “At least with me, you’ll see your friends again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now now, be nice or you’ll get bagged.” When they returned to the smaller wagon, there was another plucker, outfitted as a skeleton perched over a nervously chatty man. The plucker had already gotten her pick into the manacles and hood. Smith’s Songbird saw the other pick and called out to him. 

“It’s gonna be okay!” Smith watched as his Songbird’s demeanor change, from frightened and flighty to a collected calm. His Songbird climbed onto the wagon and sat with the other pick, who immediately started to cry. Another round of screams came, and Smith was glad. As much as he liked this job, he couldn’t stand the guilt that seeped into his mind sometimes. Smith approached the wagon.

“I have a little proposition for you,” Smith started. His Songbird stared at him defiantly, moving to block the crying man. “You wear the hood, and you two share the manacles. One peep out of you before we get to the House, and you’ll be stuck like that for the rest of the night.”

“Please, yes, just take this thing off of me,” the hooded man cried, and Smith undid the hood. The other plucker moved to Smith’s side and worked on moving over of the manacles over to the Songbird’s hand while Smith removed the jute bag. 

“He sure was quick to put you in this. Remember that.” The screams of the third and final pick grew closer, and Smith hooded his Songbird.


	7. Unlikely Friends

“I heard your little baker had a little tumble.” Trott didn’t look up from sprinkling poppy seeds on the almost-complete loaf of bread. He had closed the shop yesterday so he could help Ross back into his apartment, and stayed with him overnight. Ross had put up a hard fight when he demanded to come back to On the Ryes today, but Trott had promised him tomorrow. With limited hours this week, Trott wouldn’t be able to afford to pay Ross and cover half the hospital bill as per Ross’s contract. Despite how close Ross and Trott had grown over the last few months, Trott was still Ross’s boss.

“I thought I locked that door.”

“You did.” Trott turned around from the counter and stared at the owner of the Stewing Brew.

“Don’t you have to have permission to enter?” Smith waved his hand as he approached the glass case.

“I’m not a bloody vampire.”

“Not really anything anymore.” That earned Trott a colder look than Smith’s usually airy smile.

“Same could be said about you.” Trott shrugged, pleased that he had twisted Smith’s cocky mood. “How is he?”

“Ross will be fine.”

“The papers are running it as a miracle.” Trott opened the hot oven and set the timer for seven more minutes.

“Why are you here Smith?” Trott rubbed his hands in his apron, trying to look pass Smith’s light. Even as a fallen, there was a golden beam that pulsated from Smith. The demon had often wondered what Smith’s wings looked like, but knew not to ask. Falling is different from Banishment: there was no honor spared for Falling, not with the other angels. Demons were somehow more sympathetic to other demons going into Banishment, and even Exile. Angels see Falling as corruption, and demons see Banishment as curiosity.

“Are you okay?” Smith seemed to be genuine in his concern. Trott had learned how to read energies from his days making Deals, but Smith’s energy didn’t fluctuate like a liar’s did.

“I’m not the one that fell off the step ladder.”

“Come on Trott, angels and demons can be friends.” Trott consider Smith for a moment: his vessel was young, maybe in his late twenties. Trott often thought about his own vessel’s life, and wondered who Smith was before, both the vessel and the Fallen. Trott’s vessel had been a dying man, a homeless queer man who couldn’t afford his antiretroviral therapy. All Christopher wanted to do was to have a home that he could cook Christmas cookies in. Christopher had been Trott’s last Deal as a full-fledged demon, and their union was the first step in his Banishment. Trott only had to call in a few old favors to have new papers made and to have a closed casket funeral for Christopher’s loved ones. Trott’s only criteria was to bake Christmas cookies each year he occupied his vessel, which he was glad to keep. He missed Christopher.

“I’m exhausted,” Trott finally answered, turning instead to clean his work station. He imagined this is what suffocating a flame felt like: slow but exponentially noticeable until it was only smoke. Banishment made prolonged possession of a unwieldy vessel a death sentence. Each struggle Ross put up on the drive to the hospital seeped more energy from Trott as he tried to hold everything together and not get them both killed. He could have kissed his baker when Ross had thrown in the towel for control.

“You need to rest. You’re barely alight.” The demon scrubbed the counter with his back to Smith. He often forgot he had a light himself, feeling so far removed from his full power. Trott let them stand in silence while he tidied up. Smith straightened tables and wrapped silverware. Trott could see his glow flickering, usually a sign that someone was conflicted. The timer went off and Trott slipped on his mittens.

“Spit it out Smith, you’re going to give me a migraine.”

“Does Ross know?” Trott put the loaf on a cooling rack.

“If you’re here to lecture me, save it.”

“Oh I’m not.” There was a pyramid of silverware on the counter next to Smith. “I think he deserves to know -”

“That his boss is an inter-dimensional soul sucker?”

“Good Lord Trott, let me speak!” Smith rolled the final set of silverware before he continued, his glow steady. “He deserves to know that you saved his life.”

“Oh.” Trott was taken aback. Angels were the protectors of the Truth, and often their goals were to hunt demons: not for their Trade itself, but because it jeopardized the Truth. Much like the stories of stealing fire, God was worried humans would take the Truth for themselves once they knew its power. “I’m surprised honestly.”

“I’m not a Guardian anymore Trott. I don’t give a fuck about the Truth. I care about humans.” Smith stood and walked to Trott, the counter only separating them. His eyes were captivating, his fainting holiness caught as gold specks in the green irises. “You did more than most Guardians would have. You did what gets an angel his wings ripped off.” The demon stared at Smith, pulling energy to see into Smith’s beyond. Trott could feel the descent, the cold and then hot pain, and the crown of thorns. Smith didn’t let Trott see more than that, closing off his mind with a glowing light that made Trott blink. Maybe he had more in common with his rival sandwich shop owner than he had thought. Trott took a breath and popped up from where he leaned on the counter. He put the bread in the empty basket in the glass case, and locked the display.

“You doing anything Smith on this fine Sabbath?” he asked as he poked at his register.

“Uh, no?” Smith asked, confusion in his voice.

“I’m closing up shop for another day - not like anyone comes in here Sunday afternoons anyways. You wanna grab some really crappy greasy human food?” Trott let a smile crack as he looked at the very confused but delighted angel.

“Fuck yeah. I’ve been dying to try the Diner’s chicken and waffles!”

“Oh my friend, you have not lived.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This universe is fleshing out as I write it, which is a nice change to how I usually write. This AU has a very cynical outlook on the purpose of religion, that probably will not be discussed in-universe just due to the nature of the story. What can I say, I'm a romantic who prefers individual conviction over conforming and believes in the power of redemption and breaking your own destiny.


End file.
